


Disease of Infatuation

by chibistarlyte



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock struggling with emotion, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:01:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a new case on their hands, one that has Sherlock baffled from the get-go. In all his frustrations, Sherlock begins to call his feelings for John into question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disease of Infatuation

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic's contest over on tumblr. This is my first time writing a casefic, so I hope it doesn't suck horribly!
> 
> Many thanks to my bestest friend Aki for being my wonderful beta!
> 
> This story hasn't been Brit-picked, but I tried my best to make it sound authentic-ish.
> 
> Enjoy!

John was not happy.  
  
Sherlock didn't even have to look at him to know that; the annoyance and irritation emanated from the doctor like gamma waves on the electromagnetic spectrum, nearly palpable in the confined area of the sitting room. When Sherlock’s sharp, silvery eyes did chance a glance, though, what he saw matched the image in his mind's eye almost perfectly. John was in his chair reading the morning paper as per usual, except a frown lingered at the corners of his mouth, his jaw set and teeth clenched. His brows were creased in a concentrated furrow, deepening the already profound wrinkles on his tanned forehead. His grip on the edges of the flimsy newsprint was a little too tight, crinkling the paper under the unnecessary pressure. His breathing was just a fraction harder than normal, more like angry huffs imperceptible to anyone but the ever-observant consulting detective currently sprawled on the old and worn sofa.

 

And Sherlock knew—bloody _knew_ , didn’t even have to deduce—precisely why John was in such a mood on a lazy day such as this one. That didn’t mean he was going to actually acknowledge the reason. Oh, no. Sherlock’s pride dictated that he was never to blame for anything, and that if people had a problem with him and his… _eccentricities_ , it was entirely _their_ fault, not his. Which was why John’s irritability in turn frustrated Sherlock, and only added to his growing ire at being utterly and undeniably—

 

“Bored.”

 

The word rolled off his tongue, the monosyllabic chant he’d been iterating for the past hour. John’s shoulders tensed and his breath hitched for just a millisecond.

 

“ _Bored_ ,” Sherlock said again, this time with purposeful emphasis, each letter weighed heavily with the inferred command of, ‘John, I need entertainment in some way, shape, or form. Do something about it.’ He idly fiddled with the belt on his dressing gown, running the pads of his fingers over the smooth silk.

 

“Get off your arse and go find something to do, then,” John muttered, his tone clipped. The page of the newspaper turned with a quiet rustle.

 

Always one for theatrics, Sherlock let a long-suffering sigh pass between his slightly parted lips as he pressed himself further into the cushions. He swore he could feel tiny ants crawling through his circulatory system, biting at the walls of his veins and arteries. An insatiable _itching_ that would not go away. Two weeks it had been since their last case. Two unbearably long, godforsaken weeks. There was hardly any room left in the fridge for the various body parts Sherlock tended to collect for his off-the-wall experiments, and he’d already singed off half of his left eyebrow three days ago via a rather unfortunate misuse of chemicals. No, experiments weren’t what he needed. He needed a puzzle, a mystery. An unfathomably clever crime to sink his teeth into.

 

“Bore- _d_ ,” he announced once more, clicking his teeth on the final phoneme.

 

An aggravated growl that was just short of feral came from John’s general direction, and the man in question snapped his newspaper shut in a hasty manner. In a moment flat he was on his feet, about to let loose a tirade of swears when the familiar tune of Sherlock’s generic ringtone cut through the tense atmosphere. John swallowed back his rant and shot Sherlock a _look_ before marching into the kitchen.

 

Long, pale fingers scraped the carpet as they snaked underneath the sofa in search of the ringing mobile. How it ended up there, Sherlock didn’t even care to consider. A trivial matter, not worth his time. A smirk tugged at his lips when he pulled his phone out of the darkness and saw the caller ID lit up on the LED screen. Finally, something that might be worthwhile.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered as nonchalantly as possible.

 

_“Murder. Bit of a mess, this one.”_ Lestrade’s voice sounded grave, serious.

 

In an attempt to stop himself from jumping up like an excited, energetic child, Sherlock merely stretched his legs past the arm of the sofa with a groan. “Straight to the point aren’t you, detective inspector?”

 

Even through the static, Sherlock could hear the exasperated sigh clear as day on the other end of the line. _“Have to be when I’m staring down at a body.”_ A pause, then, _“Will you come take a look?”_

“Text me the details; I’ll be there soon.” Without giving Lestrade a chance to say much else, Sherlock ended the call and sprung up from the sofa like a metal coil finally let loose. He all but dashed through the kitchen on the way to his room to get dressed. “John! Case!”

 

“Figures as soon as I make my bloody tea,” he heard John say from the kitchen, but his tone sounded lighter. Happier than it had been only minutes ago. Good for that—Sherlock didn’t want a grumpy flatmate at his crime scene. Too much of a distraction. Well…John was always a distraction, if Sherlock were to be completely honest. Nonetheless, he was ill-equipped to put up with John in a bad mood.

 

How the doctor was able to put up with him and his regular strops, Sherlock had no idea. But now was not the time to be thinking about that. He finally had a case!

 

.

 

Lestrade wasn’t kidding when he’d said the scene was ‘a bit of a mess.’

 

It wasn’t the most gruesome thing John had seen in his life—as an army doctor, there were many things he’d rather forget having seen—but dear God, there was a lot of blood. The poor girl. She was quite the sight with her long blonde hair and perfect nails dripping with blood. And of course, not even ten seconds on the scene and Sherlock was already examining said hair and nails under the scope of his pocket lens. Still, John would take this Sherlock over bored Sherlock any day.

 

Just a cursory glance told John that the girl had been stabbed in the chest, right through the heart. He needed to get a closer look to see the extent of the damage beyond that glaringly obvious fact, but Sherlock was still hogging the body to himself. Guess he’d have to wait his turn.

 

Also, what was with that flimsy red thread tied around her left pinkie finger?

 

“What do we know about her, Greg?” he asked the detective inspector as they both dressed in those hideous but mandatory blue suits, stupid booties and all.

 

“Jane Larson’s her name. Twenty-three, receptionist, dad deceased, mum in a nursing home. No siblings, no partner. Recently graduated university,” Lestrade listed off, crossing his arms over his chest. “She was seen coming home alone last night around midnight, and we received the call about an hour ago. Seven hours of time unaccounted for.”

 

“And I suppose no one noticed anything suspicious?” John guessed, ready for the affirmative that his question was correct. Regretfully, the DI gave him a minute head shake.

 

“John,” Sherlock interjected, waving his latex-clad hand in his flatmate’s direction.

 

Well, time to play doctor.

 

John took precarious steps forward, careful to avoid the crimson puddles and spatters on the eggshell carpet. He looked to Sherlock for permission, which he received in the form of a curt nod, before kneeling down next to the body for a better look. Clouded blue eyes stared lifelessly back up at him. John pressed at the woman’s skin; relative warmth could still be felt through the latex of his gloves, though not the warmth of a human body’s usual temperature. “Dead for…maybe four hours,” he estimated. He could feel several pairs of eyes on him, expectant stares waiting for him to continue.

 

Sucking in a breath, John leaned in closer to examine the fatal wound.

 

“Long knife,” he announced after a couple minutes of close scrutiny. “Long, but thin. The ripping of the skin here,” he pointed his finger toward a particularly torn edge of epidermis, “suggests a serrated blade. Possibly a bread knife.”

 

Sherlock let out a thoughtful hum, and John had to quell the sudden fluttering in his ribcage. The doctor cleared his throat and stood up once more, taking his usual place beside the consulting detective.

 

“Keep everyone out for two more minutes,” Sherlock instructed Lestrade, his eyes already darting around the bedroom of the victim. “Then Anderson can come in and contaminate the crime scene with his idiocy all he wants.”

 

Before Anderson could bite back a nasty retort, Lestrade was ushering him and his other officers out of the room, giving them all strict orders to stay clear until Sherlock was finished going about his business. John turned to leave as well, deigning it best to leave his friend to his brilliant antics, when a hand suddenly clasped around his wrist.

 

“Stay here, John,” came Sherlock’s voice, low and cool.

 

John didn’t see how much more useful he could be, seeing as his job as the resident medical expert was pretty much done at this point. Still, he nodded slowly and met Sherlock’s intense gaze. “Okay. I’ll stay,” he acquiesced.

 

Once he was satisfied with the answer, Sherlock unhooked his fingers from John’s wrist and began his search of the room, his coat billowing behind him as he moved about. John loved watching him like this—so totally absorbed in The Work, gears and cogs spinning so fast in that magnificent brain of his as loads upon loads of information invaded his senses. What Sherlock did, using this art of deduction that he’d coined and perfected into an exact science, putting years of practice into action, was like seeing a painting in motion. John loved every second of it.

 

“Her diary is missing.”

 

It took a few seconds for John to realize that he was being spoken to. “Sorry…what?”

 

“Do pay attention, John,” Sherlock chided with a sigh. “Her diary—it’s not here.” He trailed the tip of his forefinger across the top of the nightstand. A lamp and several books made their homes there, but it was the empty space to which the consulting detective was referring. “She keeps it in this spot. Writes in it every night before going to sleep. Yet it’s nowhere to be found in this room…”

 

And there it was, the tiny tug at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smirk, but an intrigued and smug upturn of his lips that John knew all too well. Sherlock had figured something out. “The killer must have taken it, then. But why would the killer be interested in such a personal item? Simple: Miss Jane Larson was murdered by someone she knew. Possibly someone she was close with or at least acquainted enough with to not feel threatened, judging by the complete lack of signs of a struggle.”

 

“Are you finished yet?” Lestrade called from the other room, sounding more than a little impatient by now.

 

“I think so,” John called back, watching as Sherlock made his final rounds. This ought to keep the man busy for a while, and allow John some peace.

 

.

 

Deft fingers danced across the keyboard at lightning speed. John should really come up with more secure passwords, Sherlock mused as he unlocked his flatmate’s computer with such ease he could have done it asleep. As promised by a certain detective inspector, a comprehensive list of ex-boyfriends and close friends of one Jane Larson awaited him in his email inbox. Good. Now the research could begin.

 

He had several different databases at his disposal for background checks and the like, one even run by the government that was top-secret to regular civilians—as much as he despised his older brother, Sherlock did have to admit, not aloud of course, that Mycroft’s connections proved to be quite useful and beneficial at times.

 

One by one, he plugged each of the names in, generating as much information on each person as he could find. Pages upon pages of text were printed out, then subsequently cut and tacked to the wall behind the sofa. In the hours following, the few scraps of paper on the wall slowly but surely extended out into a grand tree of data, each branch filled with leaves of facts and figures with hastily-pasted lines connecting certain pieces together.

 

But…there were no connections at all. No plausible ones, anyway.

 

Not one of these people was the killer. Not by a longshot.

 

Sherlock carded a hand through his wild curls, ruffling them even more, if such a thing were possible. He snatched his phone from the desk and typed out a quick message to Lestrade. He needed more evidence. There was something missing…

 

_Photographs. I need photographs. SH_

_I’ll be round to drop them off later. –L_

Sherlock restrained himself from sending back a nasty retort and instead flopped down on the sofa with a _harrumph_. He couldn’t just _wait_ for Lestrade to bring him the photos. Who knew how long that could take? Especially since the detective inspector was probably inundated in paperwork at the moment, possibly bleeding to death from paper cuts. What a tragic end that would be.

 

“John!” he called out to the seemingly empty flat, waiting a mere two seconds before shouting John’s name again.

 

Still no response.

 

Where was he?

 

Letting out yet another sigh—Sherlock had nearly perfected the art of a dramatic sigh at this point—the lanky man rolled off the couch and stomped around a bit, making as much noise as humanly possible. Mrs. Hudson probably wouldn’t be happy with him for that. But that was the least of his worries right now. He was stumped, and frustrated as all get out. The elation at actually having something interesting with which to occupy his mind was greatly outweighed by the irritation at his inability to accurately pinpoint the murderer. As much as he adored challenging his far superior intellect, he absolutely _loathed_ leaving a puzzle unsolved.

 

He _really_ needed those photographs.

 

“JOHN!” Sherlock shouted, the volume of his voice louder tenfold from his last round of summons. He pounded up the stairs to John’s room, intent on raising absolute hell. Well, mostly. He also just wanted John to go retrieve the crime scene photographs from Lestrade, because for whatever reason, the consulting detective couldn’t be arsed to actually do it himself.

 

Every single racing thought veered off the track when Sherlock reached John’s room.

 

The bedside lamp was still on, the dim wattage of the bulb casting a golden glow about the room. An old medical journal lay open on John’s jumper-clad chest, his hand splayed atop the binding. He was snoring, though only faintly, a slight rumble coming from his nostrils with every exhale. John was not a heavy sleeper by any means—Sherlock was rather surprised that, despite all the ruckus he’d caused in his childish tantrum, John still slept undisturbed.

 

Something new…no, not something new, something familiar but uncomfortable all the same, bloomed in the pit of his stomach. He felt the dampness of perspiration in his palms, causing his grip on the door frame to falter and slip. This feeling…it made him lightheaded, dizzy. Almost reminiscent of being high, but significantly more pleasant. Still sickening, but undoubtedly wonderful.

 

Infatuation. Disgusting.

 

Well, whatever. John was asleep, and Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to leave the flat when there was still so much _thinking_ to be done. He would just wait for Lestrade to come by later.

 

In the meantime, two nicotine patches would do the trick.

 

.

 

Two days later, John was on his lunch break when he received an urgent text.

 

_Another murder. Same as Jane Larson. Your assistance is required immediately. SH_

With a slight frown, he wiped off the mayonnaise that his thumb smeared on his phone’s screen by accident. The condiment left an oily residue in its wake.

 

_I can’t just leave work, Sherlock,_ he messaged back before taking another bite of his sandwich. Despite his protest, he was already running through various strategies of escape from his locum work at the surgery. He could feign illness. Prolonged exposure to sick and diseased people day in and day out could definitely wear down one’s immune system. Or maybe he could shove his last few patients off on someone else. Sarah was always willing to help him out in that regard, but the last thing he wanted to do was take advantage of her kindness. He could fake a family emergency, say his mum or sister were sick. With his luck, though, that actually stood a chance of coming true, with Harry ending up in the A &E with alcohol poisoning or something of the sort. Okay, that was certainly out of the question. What to do, what to do…

 

So caught up was John in his imagination that he almost missed the buzzing of his phone as a new message lit up the screen.

 

_I need you. SH_

 

Oh, bugger. _That_ had done it.

 

Next thing he knew, John was wolfing down the rest of his sandwich and tossing his belongings haphazardly into his satchel. He logged off his office computer and flew out of the examining room in a rush. There were other respectable doctors to take care of the rest of his patients. Right now, there was somewhere else he had to be.

 

Sherlock always took top priority, all things be damned.

 

_Where can I meet you?_ he texted before hailing a taxi.

 

.

 

After texting John the address of the latest crime scene, Sherlock pocketed his mobile device and turned his attentions to the couple lying dead on the floor. The female—name Catherine Bogart, age twenty-eight, up-and-coming journalist for _The Times_ , loves cats but deathly allergic—closely resembled the previous victim in terms of cause of death. Fatal stab to the chest with a weapon similar to that used to bring Jane Larson to her untimely end. Red thread tied around her left pinkie. Faint tan line snaking around her left ring finger. A ring, then. Probably an engagement band.

 

Most definitely an engagement band.

 

Affianced to the other victim, the male—Jacob Tutchton, age thirty, apprenticing doctor, has a soft spot for romantic comedy films and a slight obsession with feet—lying adjacent to the corpse of the woman. His cause of death was not the same as his betrothed. Blow to the temple, probably felled him instantly. Death on impact. A blunt instrument. Perhaps a croquet mallet?

 

Then his left ring finger…ah, yes. Small indentation in the skin where a ring had been not long ago.

 

Missing engagement rings. Interesting.

 

“The Freak’s boy toy is here!” Sally Donovan announced rather obnoxiously as John finally made his way onto the scene. She either missed the dirty glare the doctor sent her way, or decided to ignore it completely in favour of getting in a few extra jabs. “Still following him around like a puppy, I see?”

 

“Enough, Sally,” Lestrade warned from off to the side, practically glued to his wireless communicator as he waited for orders from higher up. When dealing with a double murder that could very possibly be linked to another unsolved murder, drama from the squad was on the bottom of the list of things the DI was willing to put up with at the moment.

 

“Why did you even call him to the scene? He’s just as baffled as the rest of us,” Donovan pointed out with a sneer.

 

At that, Sherlock bristled. It was as if she didn’t understand the concept of ‘shut up.’ He looked to John, who just shook his head. No need to rise to the bait and indulge Donovan in her verbal attack on them. She usually wasn’t this forward about it—clearly, things were starting to go south with Anderson. Probably because his wife was finally starting to suspect something. Took her long enough.

 

“Any ideas, Sherlock?” John asked, eyeing the scene with a mournful expression. Nothing was sadder than two lovers meeting their end in such a brutal fashion.

 

“A few,” Sherlock said dismissively, giving Donovan a pointed, icy glare as he spoke. “Their engagement rings are missing, much like the first victim’s diary. The motive must have been similar in both instances…”

 

“But why murder two people this time around? And the red thread…” John trailed off. His unfinished question hung in the air like thick London fog.

 

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to admit that he didn’t know.

 

.

 

Three days into the case and John could barely see the old wallpaper adorning the walls of their flat. Sherlock’s “data tree,” as he’d come to call it, had grown into nothing short of a data forest, covering almost every spare inch of wall in the sitting room. Sherlock had been staring at the same section of wall for the past four hours, hands steepled beneath his chin in his typical fashion. John had been watching Sherlock from his armchair the entire time, waiting for the man to say _something_ , even if it was just barking an order for some tea or to replenish his nicotine patches. The silence was unsettling. Far more so than usual.

 

May as well do some research of his own, then.

 

It took John a few tries to correctly guess his password—Sherlock had changed it on him, the git—and once he unlocked his laptop, he pulled up a search engine in his browser window. Slowly pecking at the keys, he typed in the phrase ‘red thread’ and clicked on the search button.

 

The Red Thread of Fate.

 

It was the first entry that popped up on the search engine, so John clicked on it and began to read. Apparently it was an old legend that was rooted in Asian cultures. It was believed that every person had a red string tied onto either their ankle or their pinkie finger. The red string was supposed to be connected to another, the person’s soul mate, one could say. It was all rather romantic, and John found he enjoyed the notion of it all. Briefly, he stole a glance at his own pinkie, wondering, if such a thing even existed, if his thread would be attached to Sherlock.

 

He couldn’t help the self-depreciating chuckle that rose from his throat. Ridiculous. John wasn’t that strong of a believer in fate. Even if he were, who was to say that Sherlock was his definite soul mate?

 

The cursor hovered over the back button in the browser for a moment before John clicked, returning to his previous search page. He scrolled down a little, skimming the titles of numerous pages all containing his specific search phrase. About half way down on the third page, he came across a thread titled ‘Severed Red Thread.’ Curious, he clicked on the link and waited for the page to load.

 

It was a chat room.

 

**_Topic: Unrequited Love_ **

_You know the saying, “Love hurts,” right? Well, here’s the place to chat and share your woes!_

The way the subject was worded made it sound almost like a bad infomercial. Still, John lurked to see what kinds of things the current members had to say about their “woes” regarding love. He certainly had a few to share himself.

 

**nobodynose:** Sometimes I feel a lot like Cyrano.

**DOtheDREW:** who da fuq is cryno

**DOtheDREW:** cyrano*

**the_quiet_1:** Cyrano de Bergerac. It’s a play.

**the_quiet_1:** Cyrano is a man who is in love with this woman named Roxane, who acknowledges that Cyrano is in love with her, but she is in love with Christian. Who is a kind-hearted man, but dumber than a sack of bricks. Cyrano pines for Roxane.

**spazzytea:** also he has a big nose. like huge

**nobodynose:** But he’s still a great guy. Roxane just can’t see that.

**breaking_the_norm:** poor dude. i know what it’s like to be friendzoned like that.

**the_quiet_1:** Don’t we all?

**DOtheDREW:** ya man that sux so hrd

**spazzytea:** this one guy i’ve been in love with for years now just got another new girlfriend

**spazzytea:** once again he forgets i even exist anymore

**spazzytea:** butt hen suddenly were like best friends when hes single

**breaking_the_norm:** wtf?

**breaking_the_norm:** what a douchebag.

**the_quiet_1:** Typical. He’s such a player. Can’t he see that he’s hurting you?

**spazzytea:** i dunno i wish he knew what it felt like to be in my shoes yknow

**nobodynose:** At least he notices you. The girl I was into? She was so blind to my feelings for her, even though they were so bloody obvious.

 

John had to stop reading for a moment. Blind to emotions. Who did that remind him of? He glanced over at his flatmate—still staring at the wall, deep in thought—then quickly looked back to the screen. He pecked out a few words on his keyboard.

 

**jw_med007:** I know how you feel there, mate.

**DOtheDREW:** omfg new prsn

**spazzytea:** NEW PERSON

**spazzytea:** OMG HI

**the_quiet_1:** Hello there.

**jw_med007:** Hello everyone. Sorry for just dropping in.

**breaking_the_norm:** no problem. always glad to meet new people.

**nobodynose:** So you’ve got the same problem, new guy (you’re a guy right?)

**jw_med007:** Yeah, I’m a bloke. :)

**jw_med007:** My flatmate isn’t good with…feelings. Even though it’s plain as day, he’s not got a clue.

**DOtheDREW:** dude mayb we cud help u

 

John hesitated for a moment. How comfortable did he really feel about taking advice from someone who couldn’t even spell out the word ‘you’ properly?

 

Then again, he was the one desperate enough to engage in an online chat about unrequited love.

 

**spazzytea:** youre sure he doesnt have feelings for you

**jw_med007:** …Pretty sure, yeah.  
 **nobodynose:** Hey Drew, should we?

**DOtheDREW:** we need 2 tlk mor frst

**DOtheDREW:** btw 007 JAMES BOND RAWKS

 

A sudden smack on the wall caused John to nearly fall out of his chair, laptop and all. He looked up only to see Sherlock stalking toward the door, sweeping his coat on in one swift motion. “Infatuation is idiotic, John,” Sherlock said coldly before cantering down the stairs.

 

John winced as the door to their flat slammed shut.

 

.

 

An involuntary chill coursed down Sherlock’s spine as he stalked down the sidewalk, slamming his heels into the concrete with much more force than was necessary. He felt the jolting shock of foot meeting pavement shoot up his leg with every step, but pointedly ignored the pain. He was angry—livid, even—because _nothing_ made sense anymore.

 

This case. This bloody stupid case. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, no matter how long he lingered in his mind palace. Facts. He had to stick to the facts. What were the facts?

 

Two of the three victims had both been stabbed in the chest. The heart, to be specific. The heart. The muscle required to remain living. Also the symbol of emotion, most commonly love. Often incorrectly depicted as two tear drops upside down. Or perhaps it was a stroke of genius, the two tear drops. Love more often than not brought pain along with it, which was why Sherlock swore off love of any kind a very long time ago.

 

No. No! The case. _Think about the case!_

 

All the victims had personal effects taken from the scene of the crime. The first victim a diary, the following two their engagement rings. Both types of items highly sentimental in value. Symbols of feelings.

 

_Feelings._

 

Infatuation was a disease. A defect. Easily explained as an overdose of chemicals in the body. Dopamine. Norepinephrine. Phenylethylamine. Natural chemicals secreted by the brain. It was all so basic, so simple. Yet nothing was simple about love. Love was dangerous and complicated and wonderful and hateful.

 

Sherlock was infatuated with John.

 

No.

 

Sherlock was _in love_ with John.

 

And that was more than a bit not good.

 

The sky above gradually darkened into dusk, finally transcending into nighttime. And still Sherlock trudged on through the streets of London, no destination in mind. He just needed to get away. Needed to escape. Needed to _think_.

 

Needed to ignore every single couple walking hand-in-hand on the sidewalk, to ignore the sad expressions of the woman who gazed with longing at the object of her affections, to ignore the agonized cry of the man who had just seen the woman he loved in the arms of another.

 

Love was a vicious motivator, Sherlock had said once. Love could turn one to madness, to insanity.

 

Was it love that killed the victims?

 

Sherlock didn’t return home that night.

 

.

 

He knew. He _knew_.

 

Sherlock knew and John was _screwed_.

 

Finally, around five in the morning, John closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair, biting at his bottom lip. Sherlock still hadn’t come back home since he’d stormed out the previous night, and the more time went on, the more John worried. He didn’t bother sending Sherlock a text or anything like that. It was dangerous to prod at the consulting detective when he was in a mood, and at this point, John was relatively certain that Sherlock hated him now. On top of that, they were still in the middle of an unsolved case. Great.

 

John didn’t sleep a wink; he merely sat in his chair, dark clouds hanging over his head, until the pale light of morning leaked through the windows of the flat. It was around seven now, and still no sign of Sherlock. The room gradually grew brighter with the rising sun, and around eight John finally forced himself out of his chair and into the kitchen. He needed some tea.

 

“Tea sounds lovely, John.”

 

And just like that the tea cup slipped from John’s hand and shattered all over the linoleum floor, eliciting the most profane swear known to mankind from John’s mouth.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock!” the doctor exclaimed, his surprise at Sherlock’s sudden appearance giving way to anger in a split second. The man in question stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the stairs, staring holes into John with those irritatingly gorgeous grey eyes. “Where the hell have you been?!”

 

“Out,” Sherlock said, his gaze unwavering.

 

A tense silence loomed between them as they just watched each other, dark blue on clouded slate. After a couple minutes in which both men seemed to forget to breathe, John eventually spoke up.

 

“What was that all about? Last night?” he asked, trepidation evident in his voice.

 

At that, Sherlock shrugged and stepped into the sitting room. “Nothing.”

 

“Nothing,” John echoed. He felt a vein twitch in his temple as he fought down the urge to march right over and punch his flatmate in his flawless face. “Sher—you can’t just say things like that and disappear for the rest of the day!”

 

Sherlock whirled around, his glare icy and dark. “Who says I can’t?”

 

John swallowed hard, his jaw set. There was no point in arguing. There never was.

 

Just then, Sherlock’s mobile sounded from inside his coat pocket. The ringing went by unnoticed for a few seconds until Sherlock whipped the device out and pressed the green button to answer the call. _“What?”_ he snapped into the speaker.

 

_“There’s been another one,”_ came Lestrade’s voice, loud and clear.

 

.

 

It was safe to say that Sherlock absolutely abhorred repetition. He hated having to repeat himself to others, he hated when the criminal classes repeated the same boring crimes over and over again.

 

But more than anything, Sherlock couldn’t stand something repetitively confounding him, stopping him and his brilliant mind dead in their tracks. And this case was doing exactly that.

 

The victim was a male this time—Scott Claxton, age nineteen, currently unemployed and living off a trust fund from his obscenely wealthy parents, bit of a coffee fanatic—killed in the same manner as the previous two females. Stab to the heart. Red thread on his littlest finger on his left hand. Still, he had no leads, and it was driving him mad.

 

A tap on his shoulder brought him out of his pouty stupor. John still hadn’t spoken a word to him since their row before being called out, and seemed to be carrying on the silent treatment. With a pointed finger, John directed Sherlock’s attention to a photo frame sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. Cracked glass, missing a photo. Another personal item stolen by the murderer.

 

Barely five minutes on the crime scene and Sherlock was already itching to return home. He needed to stare at his data forest some more.

 

What the hell could he have been missing?

 

.

 

**To:** [ **jw_med007@britmail.co.uk** ](mailto:jw_med007@britmail.co.uk)

**From:** [ **DOtheDREW@britmail.co.uk** ](mailto:DOtheDREW@britmail.co.uk)

**Subject:** u need sum help?

 

_hey dude_

_so the rest of us frm the chat wer tlkin n we figrd_

_we have a gud way 2 take care of ur problem w/ ur flat mate_

_msg me bak n ill tell u da plan_

_drew_

 

An email from one of his new “friends” was the last thing John expected to find waiting for him upon his and Sherlock’s return to 221b. They still weren’t talking to each other, though John wasn’t sure if he should count that as a curse or a blessing. On one hand, he knew how to deal with Sherlock’s moods and bouts of silence. On the other hand, he almost wished Sherlock would yell at him, because at least John would know exactly what Sherlock was feeling.

 

After a few minutes of trying to decipher the email—God, was it a headache to read chat speak—John set his laptop aside and took a gander at Sherlock’s data forest. New photos from today’s murder now adorned the wall. All stabbed through the heart. All missing an item of importance. All left with a red thread on their pinkies.

 

Red thread.

 

John pursed his lips and turned back to his computer, glancing over the email and rereading the terribly typed text. After a moment of consideration, he grabbed the technological device and placed it back on his lap. He pulled down his bookmark menu, clicking on the link that led him to the chat room.

 

**the_quiet_1:** He still had it, you guys.

**the_quiet_1:** The photo.

**the_quiet_1:** We had that photo taken years ago.

**nobodynose:** You don’t regret it, do you?

**DOtheDREW:** dude dnt even start ok u did wat u had 2

**DOtheDREW:** now he cnt hurt u nemore

 

Well. This was certainly different than the night before.

 

“Sherlock?” John said hesitantly.

 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock replied with just as much caution.

 

“I think I found something.”

 

As soon as the words had come out of John’s mouth, Sherlock was looming over his shoulder with his eyes locked on the backlit screen of the laptop. He was so close that his dark curls brushed against the side of John’s head. Warm breath caressed his cheek. There was a pregnant pause as Sherlock took his time reading the text presented to him. Once the words absorbed into his sponge-like brain, his expression of concentration melted away like ice on a stovetop to be replaced with the most radiant smile John had ever seen adorn his features.

 

“Oh… _oh_ , that is _brilliant_!” the consulting detective exclaimed, clapping his hands together and making a mad dash for his data forest. “Fantastic. Gorgeous. It’s all _right here_! John, you are a genius!”

 

So much for their argument earlier.

 

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” John muttered, utterly confused as to why Sherlock decided to call him a _genius_ of all things. “What are you—“

 

“John, don’t you _see_?! You’ve found them. Our murderers! Now we just need to lure them out into the open…but how…” Sherlock trailed off, running his fingertips along his lips as he put on his thinking face. He was practically dancing around the flat in his excitement—John was getting a bit dizzy watching him spin and pace about. “Cold-blooded crimes of passion,” the dark-haired man muttered, and suddenly his face was mere centimetres from John’s, silver eyes boring into him. “John, I need to you love me.”

 

A lump formed in John’s throat that gave him a considerable amount of difficulty breathing. _“What?”_

A frustrated sigh blew from Sherlock’s mouth and over John’s rapidly reddening face. “John, do keep up. You need to post in this chat…act like you’re infatuated with me, but are scorned by my lack of interest in you. They will help you plot out my murder, in which I will serve as the bait to lure them out. Then the Yarders can handle it…hopefully.”

 

John barely understood what Sherlock had said, a mixture of his extremely close proximity and his annoying habit of talking a mile a minute. Nevertheless, he nodded. “This…this is crazy, Sherlock,” John whispered, positive that his voice would crack if he dared to speak louder.

 

“Trust me, John. This will work.”

 

They held each other’s gazes, long and intense and emotionally charged, until John turned his focus elsewhere. Anywhere, on anything but Sherlock. “Phone Lestrade and tell him about the plan, then,” he conceded.

 

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, bounding into the kitchen in search of his mobile.

 

**To:** [ **DOtheDREW@britmail.co.uk** ](mailto:DOtheDREW@britmail.co.uk)

**From:** [ **jw_med007@britmail.co.uk** ](mailto:jw_med007@britmail.co.uk)

**Subject:** Re: u need sum help?

 

_Actually, yes. I would very much like your help in dealing with my…problem._

_What’s the plan?_

 

.

 

The darkness pressed in around him, threatening to swallow him whole. The wait was positively _agonizing_. Sherlock tried to keep the jitters at bay, wrapped up in his sheets and duvet and curled up in bed, feigning sleep. It was a thrill, waiting to be murdered. But it was also nerve-wracking, not being entirely in control of the situation. He knew it was a dangerous plan—Lestrade had only said that about fifteen times during their phone call—but it was also foolproof. It was bound to work, and soon they’d have a few killers arrested and this case would finally be put to rest.

 

All Sherlock had to do was pretend to be asleep. Then the band of killers would come to John’s aid, to sneak up on the unsuspecting sleeping man and be rid of him for good.

 

How silly to murder in the name of so-called love. This was more of obsessive infatuation than anything, a trip down the winding road of insanity. Borderline stalker tendencies. That wasn’t love. No, not at all.

 

Then again, he was Sherlock Holmes. What did he know of love?

 

He heard John’s watch beeping from the other room. Eleven, twelve…midnight. It was time.

 

At least these murderers were punctual, Sherlock noted, hearing footsteps padding through the kitchen.

 

“In the bedroom,” he heard John whisper. “He’s asleep.”

 

“Good,” a female voice replied with a giggle. “He’ll never suspect it coming.”

 

Five…no, six pairs of footsteps slowly made their way down the short hallway leading from the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom. His fists clenched his sheets, causing his knuckles to go white. The anticipation was building in his abdomen, causing his muscles to twitch and spasm of their own free will. His door creaked slightly as it slowly opened.

 

Wait for it…wait for it…

 

_Now._

 

John flicked on the bedside lamp as they had planned, illuminating the five strange and unfamiliar faces taking up residence in Sherlock’s bedroom. One of the two females shrieked in surprise as Sherlock leapt up from his cocoon of blankets and initiated a surprise attack, flying at the boy holding the croquet mallet and trying to wrestle the makeshift weapon from his grip.

 

A couple knocks and bruises later and Sherlock was pinned to the floor, his cheek mashed against the carpet and the fibers scraping a rash across his porcelain skin. He struggled and thrashed against the weight on top of him, but to no avail. He was trapped. His eyes darted around in a wild panic, trying to locate John’s position. This was _not_ in the plan. Where the hell were the Yarders? They should have been here by now!

 

John was standing by the door, looking as terrified as Sherlock felt, holding a bread knife in his trembling left hand. The murder weapon…so John had been right in his assumption after all, Sherlock idly thought, trying to quell the fear pooling in his gut.

 

“Do it! Come on!” the boy sitting atop him yelled at John, a certain edge in his voice. “Don’t pussy out now!”

 

The five assailants all focused their attention on John, who stood stock still with the knife in his hand. His dark blue eyes stared down at Sherlock, who stared right back up at him as much as his awkward position against the floor would allow. One of the things Sherlock had come to love most about John was his ability to communicate without words. Especially in moments like these, when one—or both—of their lives were at stake.

 

Attack. John was going to attack.

 

And Sherlock gave him the okay.

 

In one quick motion, John chucked the knife into the hallway and lunged at the boy nearest him. His intent wasn’t to kill, only to disarm and incapacitate. An instant later, the boy was lying on the floor and groaning in pain, unable to move.

 

While he set to work on the two girls, Sherlock took the opportunity to roll onto his back and kick his captor right in the stomach. The croquet mallet dropped to the floor with a thunk as the boy doubled over, falling off of Sherlock and onto the floor. Sherlock made to grab at the fallen weapon, only to be beaten to it by the remaining boy, who had John restrained in his grasp and held the head of the mallet poised over John’s head, ready to crack his skull.

 

“Take a step closer, and I’ll kill him,” the boy threatened.

 

Without even a second thought regarding the words falling out of his mouth, Sherlock snarled, “You kill the man I love, I will kill you in cold blood.”

 

The simultaneous expression of shock shared by both the boy and John would have been absolutely priceless had the circumstances been different.

 

“Drop the weapon!” Lestrade shouted from the doorway, his gun aimed right at the boy’s head. A look of panic quickly erased the previous one of shock on the boy’s features. Staring down the barrel of a police-issued hand gun, he dropped his croquet mallet and released John. His hands raised in surrender.

 

Took them long enough, Sherlock thought, relief surging like cool water through his veins. He latched onto John and pulled him close, not planning on letting him go anytime soon.

 

.

 

It took a good hour until Sherlock’s bedroom was cleared of murderers and accomplices alike. John and Sherlock both gave their statements concerning the incident, and promised Lestrade they’d come by Scotland Yard in the morning to give a fully detailed account as to what happened. But for now, they just wanted to sleep. Being threatened with one’s life really took a toll on one’s mental and physical state, believe it or not.

 

“So…case solved?” John asked tiredly, taking a seat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed.

 

Sherlock, who was wrapped up once again in a mess of blankets in the middle of the mattress, shook his head minutely. “No…not quite solved.” Long and bony fingers idly twisted unruly raven tendrils of his hair. “I still don’t understand the motive behind the murders.”

 

Heaving a sigh that made his shoulders slouch forward in exhaustion, John said, “Love makes people do crazy things, Sherlock.”

 

A noncommittal hum erupted from the detective’s throat. “I suppose so,” he agreed, still not sounding completely satisfied with the answer.

 

It was quiet between them. Too quiet. Until John decided to break the quiet.

 

“Did you mean what you said, Sherlock? When that boy threatened to kill me?”

 

Sherlock’s head shot up, John’s question startling him out of his own musings. He had hoped that in the midst of everything, his not-so-subtle declaration would have gone unnoticed. Oh, how wrong he was. “I never say things I don’t mean,” was his vague, roundabout reply.

 

It was apparently enough for John. Before Sherlock knew it, John crawled across the small distance separating them and pressed their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss. Butterflies fluttered up from every inch of Sherlock’s skin, leaving goose pimples in their wake. The feeling of John’s mouth on his…it was the happiest he had felt without chemical stimulus.

 

Of course as soon as that thought entered his overactive mind, his logical side argued that infatuation—no, love—didn’t occur without chemical stimulus. It was all science, plain and simple. The way his heart pounded against his ribcage, the way his breathing quickened and caused him to feel lightheaded…it was biochemistry.

 

But…with John, it was magic. Pure, sparkly, fantasized magic. It was more than he wanted, and that was good.

 

When John finally pulled away, Sherlock found himself inching forward, seeking that comfort, that warmth once again. “John…,” he whispered, reaching up and stroking the doctor’s cheek. It felt heated beneath his touch, the skin flushed and glowing.

 

“Sleep, Sherlock. We can talk about this in the morning.”

 

And sleep Sherlock did, with John curled against his side beneath the sheets.


End file.
